


She Is Wet Everywhere

by Pink_Siamese



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Belts, Bloodplay, Cutting, Domestic Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Face Slapping, Heavy BDSM, Knifeplay, Medical Device, Missing Scene, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, Restraints, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Siamese/pseuds/Pink_Siamese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blue eyes. So blue. Sockets full of quarry water. Structures are submerged deep in them, she knows. She has touched them. She has stroked them and lashed her body to them and trembled. </p><p>Major Spoilers for episode 3x14 "Prey."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Running

Andrea runs and she is wet everywhere. A flood in her, riding the tides of her frantic heartbeat.  It pushes up through her skin, reeks of raw meat and burning rubber. She churns the humid air with her arms. She pounds the ground with her feet.

She does not think of him, lost in the warehouse. His strike of a shovel against the cement floor: wince wince wince. Her shoulders move, clenching against the memory. Mosquitoes hum around the swampland of her face. Though she does not think of it, the tune of his whistling resonates in her. The remembered sound of broken glass, tinkling like music, quivers in her sinews. It makes them loose.

_It’s all memory though now the memory of memory of it of him gunshots onetwothreefourfivesix gone and howling_

She wants to squeeze her eyes shut but she can’t. Once upon a time, when there were walkers, she would think of her past. Upon killing, she would think of the high-heeled shoes she used to wear. How uncomfortable they were, her toes numbed into submission at the end of the day

 _and how Philip said, one time upon this memory, she told it to him and he laid his hands upon the story of her and murmured I don’t need that I don’t need those things_ those thangs _and he whispered it, so soft and hot to the roots of her hair, to her skin_ and she shudders caught inside the memory of it a memory like a steel cage but so very gentle

...and in the easing off of her shoes how her whole world would come back to her, the world she had had before she was a grownup and playing out in the woods with Amy and fishing and climbing trees and living a life free of the chains of responsibility. She imagined herself killing pieces of her old life with each walker she took down. Here were the shoes. Here was the gross old boss who grabbed her ass. Here was the bar exam. Here was the lonely girl she’d kissed at an eighth grade party who filled the school with rumors of her, that she was some kind of depraved baby dyke.

Underneath the grass, the ground is red. Her shoes cleave into it like they are cleaving into a diseased heart.

There are walkers. They come staggering out of the wilderness and she kills them, their thickened blood dark on her hands, hot only because the day is hot. The bones are warped, like old wood, and crumble beneath her knife. She does not think of anything when she kills them. The sky overhead is hot and white and with the effort it takes to kill she feels that sky pressing down on her head, high and full of humming, pushing light out of her eyes. The heat comes, carried on a stench of hay, seductive. She longs to swoon into it. Instead she pushes herself onto a spike of fear and allows the pain to carry her past the grass. She pushes up a hill, flies into a copse of spindly trees with their embrace of weak shade. Her toes catch on a root. She lets herself fall. Her elbows knock against rocks. Her mouth mashes into flattened grass. Her chest labors, pushing her body up and down. The ground is so soft.

She startles, eyes flying open. Her nerves splinter into a wracking frisson, flesh filled with the pure high clamor of

_(broken glass tinkling falling into the slow deliberate clank clank clank clank of steel)_

adrenaline, and with her mouth full of rust she pushes the veil of sleep away and staggers up through the tightened bands of her muscles. She whirls around in an unsteady circle. The whole world turns with her, the clouds lazy, horizon slewing sideways until she comes up against a tree. Her hands wrap around its slender trunk and she leans into it until the hills lull, slipping back down into hot reeking cicada dreams.

“I can’t fall asleep,” she whispers and her voice sounds so loud to her own ears, so plaintive.

Later she is at the prison close to the prison the prison has come to her, come out of the leaves like Cibola, she has come all the way over hill and dale and the light falling on it is perfect and the slight breeze rolling out of the leaves is perfect and she sways a little on her feet, squinting into the light, eyes full of the light and is that Rick? Could it be? The relief comes. It makes her weak. It softens her into the moment and she becomes the maiden of legend, the princess, her body will fall down at his door and he will come the others will come they will take her up they will carry her inside and Rick’s hand, she sees it, she sees it in her mind’s eye, it  hovers over her. She sees Michonne in the darkness; she is always in the darkness, waiting. There is water. There is concern held in check to the reverence of the moment. Rick’s hand is a gesture wrought in love. Andrea closes her eyes. Woodbury is gone. She is so wet, all of the waters of her body have risen up to float upon her skin. The forks and hollows of her body are drenched.

_Philip is gone too but_

She allows herself to smile. She lifts up her hand. She is soft all over, weakened all through, her blood is frantic but she has succumbed to the momentum of the moment, to her exhaustion. Her bones are breaking down

_And he is he is he he the smell of him can’t be dark spice with the sting of leather and a longing of old whiskey caught in the gleaming curve of metal_

Hands close on her shoulders, toss her backwards. Her teeth bare. She does not have time to be disoriented. Andrea’s eyes widen. She pushes at the arm holding her down, a big hand on her mouth, fingers like a steel trap. His face is white, trembling, caught in the shade with blood stark upon his face and making a map of the injuries and the disbelief and the rage with the lines in his skin. He leans over, knees crunching on brittle twigs, he brings his scent down to her, his restrained skin and meat smell, the spice of sweat, breath steeped in milk and bread, the smokiness of rampant testosterone. Blue eyes. So blue. Sockets full of quarry water. Structures are submerged deep in them, she knows. She has touched them. She has stroked them and lashed her body to them and trembled. His mouth comes close to his own knuckles, brushes them. Her breathing increases. The tension of her limbs unwinds into shuddering.

“Time to come home, now,” he murmurs, smile curling around the softened words. She looks into his eyes, unfocused, and can’t see his smile but she feels it unravel against her cheek. “Time to come home, now, huh?”

His weight settles astride her, it comes into her, pressing in familiar ways; deep down in the front where her pelvic bones meet there is a subtle rub and the heat comes to its bidding the way it always has, the way her heat has always answered to him.

She struggles. He makes her still.

“Let’s get you home, honey.”

She struggles again and he slaps her, the heat of it exploding into her darkness. The day is still. Hot. She is wet everywhere. A flood in her, riding the tides of her frantic heartbeat. He pulls back and smiles and shakes her face until her eyelids flutter and she opens her eyes. He does it until she watches the way his smile undulates across his face.

He tilts his face up so he’s looking down the length of his nose and he breathes heavy into the words: “I’m gonna take you home.”

Andrea stares up into the wide open sky. She hears the walkers in the distance, shuffling, groaning.

Philip brings his mouth to her ear, blows hot goosebumps down the length of her body. “I’m gonna fill you with pain,” he whispers.


	2. Shaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay...so it's a little AU.

Her ass is numb. She shifts her seat and feeling whispers deep in her flesh like it wants to come back, yearns, but is too scared of the dark.

_Shhhhhh, he said, shhhhhh, all of this long soft shhhhhhhhhhhh coming out of him like it is time for sleep_

His smile, so much like a snake. Overhead, a corrugated ceiling. These cement walls make no sense. Her bones are tired. Her skin feels barren. Her mouth is cold. His smile slithering in her. He is not here, not in the room, but the old tracks of his smile burn over the new ones, across all of her membranes. He is not in the room, but he is in the room. The trappings of him, the articulated speech, the airs, the polish to all of his gestures.

_Shhhhh darlin eat this, I know it’s hard but you need to…come on now_

Her lips push the forms of words against the tape. She has to struggle to think them. The tape, gone askew, compresses them into layers of heat and disarticulated sound but in her mind they are perfect: but that is not what happened.

 _That is not what happened_.

Her first night in Woodbury, she shook. Out of her mind with sickness, her body became a wet tremolo, a disjointed work, her breath breaking apart in waves. For days she lay in her bed and trembled.

The door opens. He comes in through shadow and dust. The light skims him, rests uneasy; it does not want to linger on his shape, on his skin. Andrea’s breath catches.

“You,” he says.

The sound of his voice. It’s heavy, rich. It slides down her skin, slips between her ribs like a warm blade. He squats. He leans forward, looks into her eyes. Her gaze skitters away. Her breath speeds up. Through her own rapid fluttering breaths she bears his silence. With tender precision, he takes hold of the edge of the tape. Her body goes rigid. He rips it off.

“Philli—ˮ

He backhands her across the mouth.

“Wha—ˮ

SMACK.

“St—!ˮ

He strikes her again, the force of the blow traveling through her head like thunder. Shivering, she bursts into tears.

“Now now.” His soft voice, sharp against her heart. He reaches out to touch the tracks of her tears. She flinches. He studies her face and she looks up at him, eyes drenched and wild. Her chin trembles. “There’s no need to cry.” He traces the edge of her swollen mouth with his thumb. She whimpers. “Such a pretty, sassy little mouth.” He leans forward, touches her cheek with the bridge of his nose. He smiles a lazy smile. Her skin floods with heat. The rhythm of her lungs dissolves into choppy juddering. “I think you’re gonna want to keep it shut a spell.”

Her fingers. Her toes. Her spine. All Andrea does in Woodbury is shake.

First there was illness and then there was another kind of illness, this one hidden, borne in the arms of the other, in the dark. Here, in this basement room, in the tight pained throbbing of her skin—a sea upon which drifts the delicious pleasure of his touch—she knows: this deep yearning, her craving of him, it invaded her body. It came when she was weak, stepped over her razed walls, took up residence in the deepest darkest parts of her; it uses her for nourishment, it gorges upon her flesh in order to replicate itself. Her unstable flesh. For a moment, it seems like he will kiss her. A hot pulse of his breath lands on her bruised mouth. Her thighs clench.

“Now that’s right, honey.” He places a finger across her lips. “Hush.”

Andrea closes her eyes. Her fingers roll into fists. She struggles with the urge to sob.

“I’m gonna hurt you,” he says, wrapping her ponytail tight around his hand. “Because you’re mine, and I can. You’re forgetful, Andrea. I know you are. I know you can’t help it. I’m gonna hurt you real good. Real good.”

Hot tears slide down her cheeks.

“Pain is a tool. It punctuates things.” He gives her head a little shake. “It makes em real. You believe that?”

Andrea licks her lips. Her eyelashes tremble. She swallows. She nods.

“You may speak.”

Her eyes open. She looks up and sees the light, there is so little of it, shadows making it purplish, gleaming dusky on the sweat of him. The set of his mouth is both harsh and soft.

“I want you to.” He traces the curve of her cheek. “Come on an speak to me, darlin.”

“Y-Y-Yes,” she breathes. “Pain. I-Is a…a…i-is a tool.”

“I’m gonna use it to write the truth into your very flesh. You b’lieve that?”

She looks up and focuses on his one eye; it is so blue, even in the dark. Her joints loosen. He breathes with her. It makes her skin feels weak. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

The tears come and he dissolves into them and the heat sears down her skin, trembling water, her jaw shivering. He nods. Inside a sleeping part of her there is something like a bird, it loosens from her throat and dives down, the wings flapping in her breath, in her chattering teeth. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. She blinks. Water drips. That part of her, the obedient part, whistles up and up and up into her mouth. It flaps its tiny wings. It fills her belly with hot water. It fills her mouth with velvet. Her breath comes harder, faster, breaks into fragments.

“Daddy,” she whispers. “Yes, Daddy.”

He holds his breath. The room holds its breath. The shadows of it go still and he looks into her face for a long moment and the cold light trembles a little and when her eyes open, when she looks up at him, her eyes are drowned. He hauls back his hand and slaps her. His mouth twists with the effort. It knocks her head to one side, ripping out hair. She makes a keening noise and he growls a little as he does it again, striking harder, knuckles leaving red contrails, and when more hair tears loose she lets out a scream, the big muscles in her thighs jerking. Her feet kick out. Her hips twist; her knees struggle to press into her chest.

“Not what I expected,” he pants, releasing her hair. “But I like it.”

Delirium, a soft blanket. It covered her. So soft. It settled down over her like a cloud, the nights cradling her through her sickness on a music of crickets, of laughter in the streets. Days made of hot sticky sun. At night, he would come into her room and open the windows. He would bring her a tall glass of sweet tea with ice cubes sparkling at the bottom. He would light a lamp and leave it in the window, the shade off of it, so the moths would come dancing in. Fireflies would come. Michonne would be in there with her, sometimes.

 _That is not what happened_.

Phillip picks up a scalpel. He holds it, narrow handle balanced between thumb and fingers with unbearable delicacy. Yellow light flashes along its edge.

“Hold still, now.”

The blade trembles, just slightly, it is like a song against her skin and her sweat runs cold. Its edge brushes her like silk. She holds her breath.

He takes the edge of her shirt in his fingers. The metal is cold, it moves like air between her skin and the cloth, she hears it bite into woven fibers, the prowling sound of cotton parting.

“Good girl,” he breathes, watching his fingers. He is so close. The fog of meat and whiskey on his breath condenses on the curve of her neck. He keeps his eye on his handiwork. “You’re so good.”

His hand quivers. The blade slips. Her breath stops and the blood is hot, runs hot, long before the stinging of it throbs its way into her skin.


	3. Bleeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this took ten times longer to write than I thought it would.
> 
> Sorry.

He tugs her bra away from her skin, cuts apart the cups.

_Like a song._

The blood pulses its way to the surface. His eyes linger on it, watching it emerge.

Its heat caresses her breath with a red velvet fingertip. The blood trickles between her breasts, sticky. She smells the iron trapped inside it. Gunpowder packed tight into red cells. It tickles across her fine hairs.

Philip takes her blood up on the edge of his thumb. The body of it, a body, round. He slides the flattening drop into his mouth. The soft wet suck of him swarms her belly. As he does this, he looks into her eyes. He looks through them, like they’re windows.

Andrea inside Andrea, crouched down, backed into where she cannot hide. In the dusty naked-bulb light, the shadow cast by his mouth looks like a wound. Looking upon it makes her restless.

His lips move into a long damp smile. “You like that?” His voice balances between a rasp and a sigh.

A spare handful of seconds hangs. She sniffs. She takes her gaze away from him. “No.”

He makes a soft hiss and grabs her jaw, the sudden scrape of his feet magnified by the hard walls and held, trembling, by the echoing floor. He wrenches her face, makes her grunt, lines her nose up with his.

“Good,” he snarls.

His fingers dig into her cheeks, the pressure forcing her mouth open. He scrapes up more blood off her squirming chest. He rubs it across her lips.

“No!”

Andrea yanks her head back and he tightens his grip, knuckles swelling, fingers pushing the flush out of her skin. They tremble together, caught in a scent of dust. With erratic breaths, a slow hand, he lifts the scalpel blade up to her mouth. She stiffens. He touches her bottom lip with the flat of the blade. Her eyes open wide.

He smiles. “Shhhh, now.”

Her knees jerk, her feet twitch.

“Your eyes, darlin,” he murmurs. “I want you to close em. Close em.”

She does and once she’s buried in dark red light a fresh layer of sweat rises up out of her skin. She gets lost in the rhythm of his breath as he runs the edge of the blade across the underside of her lip. Her voice wells up into her nose, keening whimpers riding out on sharp puffs of breath. Her rapid heartbeat pounds against the back of her throat. The dark red light curls into her brain, murmurs promises to her bloodstream. It whispers _ah God please don’t hurt me_. It coils up deep in her ears, makes the words shiver, makes them stern: _This blade is a conductor of heat. It is a conductor of pain, but it is a lover of blood._ She imagines it, his foreign warmth, as a wave of stars; she sees it rolling up out of darkness all hot and salty. Nurtured by flesh, kindled into life.

A careless metallic clatter startles her out of thought. Her mouth, abandoned, puckers slightly, as if to kiss air. Her eyes open and the bulb overhead floods the darkness with light. It blinds her. A smeared shadow of bricks float on her tears.

Phillip lunges forward, panting. He smothers her in a hard and grinding kiss.

Andrea comes together, breaks apart, floats together again; it is a viscous cycle, she rocks into it, into him, her pieces drifting around him, making a circle. She shifted by a memory of the sea carried deep in her breath. It fills her womb. It slops over. His breath forces hers back down, jams her in her throat. His hands pull at her hair, unmoored. She goes soft in her chains, in _his_ chains, tethers crafted of bone and metal, muscle and fury. The taste of blood rides high in her mouth. His fingers tremble on her cheeks, float on her skin, yearn to form a cage around her face. Her imprint of blood stretches out on his tongue, written in heavy iron; to kiss him is to swallow, in increments, the slow penetration of a sword. It pins her into the moment.

The metal loosens, falls away from her wrists. The sensation is crowned with stars; its light burns through her, an ancient caress of photons luminescent upon her skin. One at a time. The metal clanks down. It takes her out of the twilight.

“W-What are y-you…?”

He cradles one wrist like a small animal broken or dead, wearing its blood, and he clasps it in something softer, leather perhaps, or maybe it’s cotton, or silk. It’s comforting, this feeling of being tied into something.

“It’s time,” he says.

“For what?”

He places the other wrist in its cradle. Soft. Organic. She cannot discern the texture; the signals of her skin have shot off their road up to her brain. His smile curls up through the corner of his mouth, makes a shadow on his cheek. “Pain.”

_Of course it is_.

She looks down. Blinks. The cuffs are fashioned of heavy-grain leather, lined in sheepskin. She looks up.

“I don’t want pain.” She doesn’t blink. “I don’t deserve pain.”

His smile curves open. It slides, slow and hot, into her belly. “Yes you do.”

The cuffs are riveted with heavy D-rings. For the first time, she notices the chains. Welded to poles on either side of the chair, they hang down in pregnant arcs. They’re padlocked to the D-rings. She brings her wrists together, slides her forearms over her thighs. The chains tinkle. It’s an empty sound, atonal, full of wind; she thinks of chimes stirring in the dark.

Andrea clears her throat. “I don’t.”

Her tone, a flash of lightning from her subconscious, fills her mouth. It mimics that of her old Women’s Studies professor. She swallows and the thought bumps up against her ribs, soft and weak, an uneasy ghost from an old life. He chuckles. Still chuckling, he pushes his foot down on something and Andrea feels the effort of it, the thickening of muscle, move through him in a wave. The chair comes loose from the floor. He kicks it out from beneath her.

“Stand.” He steps back, arms swaying.

Her thigh muscles like baby birds, hungry and weak.

He stands before her to dismember her clothes. To incise the seams. Pieces lift away from her skin, cooling it. He whistles. Waves of goosefire prickle up into her scalp.

Then comes the clatter of his belt. It’s a laden sound, precise, weighted with purpose; she thinks of hammer strikes and railroad spikes. Leather unfolding. Whispering.

“Daddy gon’ use his belt on you, sugarpie.” Andrea feels the smile, the way it cradles the mess of his breath. The tenderness of it. “I’m gonna make you sing in your chains like the sea.”

The first strike comes, heavy. It lands across her ass. She feels the thud deep in her meat right before the burn comes, rising tight into the surface of her skin. Deep, like a stomping. Like being kicked down. Red clay flashes through her mind. Split grass.

Here, the stinging. Her skin beating blood.

There, the jingling. Her shadow making strange shapes upon the floor.

Her thighs, her ass, the backs of her shoulders. He makes a rhythm. The pain is low, red, a swollen burning horizon held in the dampness of her flesh. His belt finds the beat of her heart, the thud of her blood. He’s done this before. Andrea tries to think the words _he’s done this before_ and her body lets out its slow sigh and her sight, wrought fragile and bright, tries to swoon.

He stops beating her. He lets his cool fingertips rest on her skin and it feels like a million tiny hair-thin spines shoved just beneath, in the tender spaces where there is no blood. She screams. He leans over, murmurs into her hair. “Shhhhhh.”

He spreads his hand and rests it on her back. He presses.

It’s better.

_What?_

_(Daddy gon’ use the belt)_

“In the chair, darlin.”

Andrea looks around. The dust is still there. Her skin throbs hard and heavy, like a bass line. Pain quivers in the tight-strung cords of her flesh. She feels awash in weakness. Hot. Sticky.

_In the chair._

“Sit.”

His mouth feels like a thought, the timbre of his voice fashioned out of the beginnings and endings of words. His breath covers her, a warm blanket stretching from edge to edge to edge to edge.

He puts the chair back. “I want you to lie down.” He keeps his voice low, like a wind coming in under the door. “Can you do that for me?”

_Yes. I can do that for you._

Her weight upon her skin creates new feelings of burn. A chorus of nettles. A slow fire smoldering slowly down after a ruinous encounter. The throbbing of it strides long and hard through her veins. It displaces her blood. She shuts her eyes. It makes her dizzy.

Philip lifts her heels into ice-cold stirrups.

“I want you to know this.” The words come out of her thought and into her hands. He rustles around like a bird in a tree, the way leaves stir in the night. “It needs to be…physical. Made into the real world.” The honey-southern stickiness leaves his voice. “You’re gonna feel this.”

“I don’t…I d-don’t know…”

Andrea lifts her head. He’s down on one knee, like an old-fashioned suitor. He thinks to warm the speculum between his hands. When it slides into her, it brings clarity to her mind. Its temperature, the ratcheting of it, the slow spread open, stirs up decades of white paper smocks.

“What is this?”

He blows a faint, gentle puff of air into her. “Emptiness,” he murmurs.

Her other mouth, stretched tight. Lips pulled apart, her clit thrusting through them. His breath comes to it, hot and slow, humid. His lips rest on the tiny shaft, make silent words. Her toes curl around the invasiveness of it. Her breath works itself into the deep, soft rhythm of his tongue. She lifts her half-open mouth toward the ceiling. Her mind is like a field longing toward her body, hanging over, her skin a sky full of stars. He licks licks licks sucks just a little bit oh…so…gently. His unshaven cheek moves along the inside of her thigh. She tingles all over with light.

When she comes, his fingers are in her. She feels only the tips of them, on the pulsing of her cervix, as though he is reading her life-force.


End file.
